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Summary:

Mark never realized just how much Roger cared…until now. 1

person, Mark’s POV.

Author’s Note:

This

a oneshot—

Just Us Two

is going to be amultichaptered fic. I don’t know where the idea came from. :D It’s a little graphic:nothing too horrible, but blood is mentioned… Also highly introspective.“We’re out of milk—can you get some?” That was what Roger said on his way out. No fucking

‘goodbye

’

just…askingme to get milk. Fucker. But still, he was my best friend…and that was why I was outin the freezing cold, heading down to the corner store.“Fuck, Roger…what a great friend,” I grumbled to myself. But I wouldn’tcomplain when he got back: I’d ask how his gig went, he’d reply

‘fine

’

and thendrag himself into bed. At least it meant he wouldn’t be shooting up.When we first moved to New York, Roger tried to explain how to walk aroundso you don’t get mugged.

‘It’s easy. Just…make it look like you’d beat the shit out of anyone who touched you.’

Apparently I ended up looking like some pompous rich asshole, so I decidedto just look at the ground. I’d gotten pretty used to seeing my shoes…worn as theywere. It was a good reminder to save up for them…if we could ever generate anyincome, what with Roger using most of it for drugs. But I’ve learned not to messwith him and his drugs—he can be pretty violent.All this was running through my head as I went on my way, counting the linesin the sidewalk—there were two-hundred-and-thirty-six between the loft and thecorner store, and I regretted not taking my bike.Well, too late to go back now.I was at line one-hundred-fifty-six when I heard someone following me. Idared to look up and behind me…and sure enough, there was a man following me. Iwinced and looked back down—I was even more of a target now. Fuck.“Hey, man,” said a voice from behind me.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I stopped, swallowing. Maybe he wasn’t talking to me…yeahright. I turned, and sure enough, he was there, only a foot from my face, his breathstinking of alcohol and weed. I backed up, just to get as far away as possible.Across the street, two men started coming this way. It was an ambush.Roger could have talked his way out of this. But me? I couldn’t do a fucking

thing

. I just…stood there, frozen in place—like a fucking statue. I’m a pretty goodrunner—maybe I should have tried to get to the store. But my mind wouldn’t work…so I just stood there.“Got a light?” asked the first man, now flanked by his buddies.I nodded. Willing my hand not to tremble, I slid it inside my pocket and closedmy fingers around the small matchbook. I kept it with me, after Roger set the couchon fire trying to light a candle. He was drunk and high at the time, but that didn’tmake any difference. He set fire to his bed when he was completely sober. Taking adeep breath, I pulled out the matchbook and held it out. Maybe I would be lucky—maybe he really just wanted a light.And that was when the first blow came. One man swung his fist into mystomach. I was thrown backwards, but not to the ground. My eyes stung andwatered, but I didn’t want them to see. Coughing, choking in a ragged breath, Istaggered against the nearest wall. The men advanced again, and one of them punched me across the face. Myglasses clattered away, and I heard the lenses crack behind the sounds of their

laughter. I was pressed against the wall, clutching my cheek and thinking:

I should run…why am I not running? Why am I not fighting back?

I knew why. I was a fucking

chicken

. I was too fucking scared to try andprotect myself. I just let them hit me again and again, until I was laying on theground, curled up in the fetal position. Over and over I repeated the same thought.

Fuck you, Roger.

I blamed him. It was wrong—he didn’t know this was going tohappen, but somewhere in my pain-addled brain, it made sense. They hadn’t let up. Hit after hit into my stomach, back, face, legs…everywhere. The three of them had shoved me against the wall, the ground…intoeach other’s fists, even. And then they’d left, tossing the matchbook beside me,where I could see it in the dim light.I saw blood everywhere…on the street, the wall, my glasses…which shonetauntingly from where they lay, just out of my reach. I struggled to take in a deepbreath, and my mouth tasted of blood.

Move

, I willed myself.

Just one arm…a finger…fuck, MOVE!

But no matter howhard I wished it, I couldn’t make myself move. I just lay there, my eyes closingslowly, wondering if Roger would be coherent enough to notice I was gone. Maybe Iwould just lay there, bleeding out…“Oh, fuck…Mark, man, you better not fucking die! I’ll

kill

you if you die!”I wondered absently who was yelling at me. I tried to crack an eye open, butto no avail. Someone was shaking me, lifting me off the pavement, wiping at myface… I winced. Ow. That fucking

hurt

.“Mark…Mark Cohen, you fucking

wake up

!”I managed to peel an eye open, and—fuck, I had to be dreaming. Roger wasthere, his face both angry and concerned. “Oh, God…Mark, what the fuckhappened?”I stared at him for a moment. “Roger?” I finally managed. My voice wasraspy, and I winced.Roger nodded. I wondered why his head was upside down… And then Irealized it. My head and shoulders were in his lap.I coughed, and tasted blood.“Shit, man…what happened to you?” Roger helped me into a sitting position,but kept one arm around my shoulders, supporting me.“Don’t you have a gig?” I rasped, still bitter about the milk think. Oh, sure itwas stupid—but I was fucking hurting

all over

, and I was

pissed

.Roger looked angry again. “Fuck, man…you’re more important than somegig.”Oh, I was dreaming. I’d wake up and Roger wouldn’t be there—he’d be off atCBGB’s, happily playing away.“C’mon…can you stand? We gotta get you off the street.”Dream-Roger helped me stand, still supporting me firmly but carefully, tryingnot to hurt me. But the second I put weight on my right leg, it gave out. Luckily,Dream-Roger held me tight—and I didn’t fall.“Dammit, Mark…how the fuck am I gonna get you back?” said Dream-Roger,basically to himself.I shrugged. “Dunno. I mean…this is all a dream, so it really doesn’t matter.”Dream-Roger stared at me. “A dream? Mark…did you get hit on the head?”I shook my head, even though I wasn’t sure.“Then…why do you think it’s a dream?”